


December 25th, 2013

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: Christmas from afar. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bickering, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Christmas, Gen, Great Hiatus, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Meretricious and a Happy New Year, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, Mycroft Worries, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Misses John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28237530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Sherlock has been away from London for almost a year.  As the organisations he aims to eliminate close in arounds him he is forced to hide out in a remote area.  His determined plans to ignore Christmas and all the emotions that is stirs up is foiled by Mycroft's interference.This story is a nod to everyone who is spending this Christmas displaced from their families, their friends, and their traditions.   Christmas is often a tough time and this year Christmas is an especially melancholy time for many many people and I wanted to write a Christmas story to suit this mood.  Let's face it, if you are reading this on Christmas day, you're probably feeling a bit down.  I hope this story gives you a reason to wallow in emotions.Thank you toSandrinafor always helping me with all my writing.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Series: Christmas from afar. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093094
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: Sherlock Xmas 2020





	December 25th, 2013

I’ve been dead for 350 days, depending on which time zone you calculate it in. I’ve crossed so many date lines and time zones that I can hardly keep track of the changes. Lose a day, gain an hour, lose eight hours, gain five back. Not that keeping track of that has been a high priority. Most days I’ve been busy with trying not to get shot, or stabbed, with variable degrees of success. If I am entirely honest, they have been closing in on me in the past few months. It is meant to be the other way around; I’m meant to be closing in on them. It’s gone a bit beyond a costume change this time. Somehow, they managed to trace me through my last identity swap, so I doubt that another new name and hair colour would shake them off my trail. They must have been getting some kind of inside information. A mole in Mycroft’s ranks. Leaving me with only one, excruciatingly banal, option. Lie low.

“Stay out of trouble. Go somewhere remote,” Mycroft had told me, “somewhere they would never dream to follow.” 

Thanks, brother, now I am freezing my arse off in the middle of bloody nowhere, with nothing to do. The place is deserted, except for the occasional trekker. There aren’t many. It’s too cold, too remote, too many trails are closed. The last group left a few days ago. No more are expected for a week or so. I guess most would rather celebrate Christmas with their families or whoever it is people spend the day with. 

The teahouse I am currently hiding out in, is a small wooden building surrounded by low drystone walls. The building has walls that are thin, the bed is little more than a wooden platform with a thin grubby mattress, and all the pipes are frozen. I haven’t seen running water for fifteen days. It is in a wide snow strewn valley. It would not be easy for anyone to sneak up unannounced. 

The sunburnt Nepalese woman that runs the teahouse smiles constantly, for absolutely no reason that I can understand, as she tends to the needs of her husband, small child, and any guests, me included. The food is better than it is in most of the teahouses in the area and she puts just the right amount of honey and hot water in the Khukri rum. The mountains that surround us are an incredible height. They creak and groan with the weight of the snow. It is as good a place as any to hide out. Yet, I am miserable. 

In the bright sun of the late winter morning, I am outside kicking about in the snow. I am collecting the remaining yak dung from the furthest field when my satellite phone rings. Yak dung is the only thing above the tree line that burns. Up here they rely on it. Without the fire it produces there would be no heating or cooking or even any water. This is the only thing of any use I can do out here. It is dull and with all the clothing that is needed to stay warm, it is awkward and slow work. I am breathless and dizzy from altitude and effort before the bag is half full. Even after seventeen days of hiking up and down the valley I am far from acclimatised. I fight my outer gloves off, so that I can work the zip on my jacket, knowing that I will not get to the phone in time. I curse as the zip jams and as I fiddle it loose, I know that only the only person with this number is Mycroft. Predictably, it stops ringing before I have it out of the pocket. It is probably be too windy to hear much anyway.

I put my gloves back on and drag the old feed sack of dung back to the little shed where it is stored. Mycroft will ring back soon. He always does.

With my ears aching from the wind and still breathless from the short walk, Mycroft rings back. A cup of ginger tea is brought to me by Nepal’s answer to Mrs. Hudson. The tea helps with the cough. All the tourists seem to have it. I am no exception. It is brought on by the cold, dry air, and the altitude I am told. 

‘Hello.” I am careful to answer with an accent that would be becoming of the Norwegian explorer that I am posing as. Although I am certain it must be Mycroft there is no way to know for sure. If it is not him, then I have a serious problem.

“Hello, Sigerson.” Mycroft replies using my current pseudonym. “Enjoying the mountains?”

This is enough to tell me that the line is relatively secure. Only regular caution is required; keep to pseudonyms, no identifying information, no exact locations. I keep that accent as I grumble, “it’s cold.” This isn’t code for anything, this is just the truth. 

“What do you expect? It is winter.”

“I’m bored.”

“You could always move onto the next task.” Mycroft tells me. I can see his sneer.

“Is that your way of saying that the little problem is solved?”

“Not at all, I just know that you like to live dangerously.”

“I think I’ll wait, getting shot at is getting old. How long will it take?”

“Patience. I am working on it. Things slow down at this time of year.”

“At what time of the year?” 

“You do know what day it is, don’t you?”

I do know, but I want to wind him up. “Wednesday. What of it?”

I hear him huff. “And the date?”

“The twenty fifth.”

“Is the significance lost on you?”

“Hardly.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Is that what this is about? Are you seriously ringing to wish me a merry Christmas?”

“Yes.” His sounds indignant and slightly surprised that I would question it. 

“The line is good. Did you commandeer a satellite for this?”

“Don’t be petulant.”

“You did!” I laugh at his audacity. 

It is cold inside, barely warmer than outside. The pot-bellied stove that acts as the heater in the main room won’t be lit until after lunch time. There is only one way to stay warm. As we have been talking, I have taken the tea and my phone to my simple room and I am now burrowing down into my sleeping bag. I lean against the wall and through the open curtains I can watch the eagles circle the lower mountains. 

Mycroft must hear the rustle of the sleeping bag. “Back in bed before eleven? You really are stagnating out there.”

“It is minus seven indoors, bed is the only warm place.” I grumble. I consider the time difference between here and London. “Why are you even up? It must be just after five there. Excited to see if Santa visited?” 

“The country still needs a leader.” He says. It’s a lie. 

“Mummy is making you drive down there, isn’t she?” I am truly laughing now. I choke down another cough brought on by the cold thin air. 

“She is terribly sad because her youngest son died this year.” Mycroft says seriously. We both know that she knows it was a hoax, but I bet she used it to manipulate him anyway. “I’m going to comfort her.”

“Sucked in.” 

“And your plans for today are better?”

“Anything is better than that.” I say, because that is what I am meant to say, but the barb he threw so casually hurts. I have no plans, how could I? The only thing to do here is to look out the window, try not to freeze to death, eat enough boring calories to stay alive and try to get enough oxygen out of the depleted air. I yearn for a Christmas like last year. I had thought it was tacky at the time, but I miss Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly, but most of all I miss John. 

“How’s John?” I ask. I never ask; haven’t once, but I do this time. Sentiment. 

“How would I know?”

“You know everything.” I say with a smirk. 

“You finally admit it, what a relief.” He gloats.

“So?”

“Fine. He is spending Christmas with his girlfriend. It seems serious.”

“It won’t last.” I say, reflexively. 

“Whatever you think.” The doubt drips from his voice. “Without you there to run her off…”

Screw you, Mycroft, screw you. I pull the sleeping bag up further and scowl at the window.

“I have a gift for you.” Mycroft tells me as I stew. “Something little to keep you occupied while you play hide and seek in the mountains. There is a drug smuggler in the area. A blonde woman, she shouldn’t be too hard to find. She may be hiding out with a group of monks. Or people pretending to be monks.” 

“I thought I was supposed to ‘stay out of trouble.’” I spit Mycroft’s words back at time, angry now.

“She’s not one of Moriarty’s, however, she is causing some drama with boarder officials. I would consider it a favour if you take care of it.” 

“You planned this.” I accuse.

“Not at all. I simply thought you might enjoy seeing one of the Natural Wonders of the Natural World. This mutually beneficial opportunity just happened to pop up in the area.” 

I am sure it is a lie. “I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.”

“Only if you find a moment amongst all the sightseeing.” 

“You’d better go, wouldn’t want to be late to Christmas breakfast. The traffic will be awful.”

“True. I couldn’t handle mummy if I were late.”

“Good luck making sure that Queenie doesn’t say the wrong thing?”

“You know, as well as I do, that it is pre-recorded.” 

“Yet you always worry.” 

“If only you knew the extent of my concerns.” He says quietly. I can almost visualise the way he would raise his eyebrows as he said it. 

“Namaste.” 

“I’ll tell mother and father that you send your love. Merry Christmas, brother mine.”

I am stunned that he broke protocol like that and in the silence that remains after he hang up, I feel more alone than before he rang. Before, I could completely ignore the idea of Christmas, but now it has been thrust upon me. 

I decide that I am glad that John has someone to spend Christmas with, even if it is a stupid girlfriend. I hope that Lestrade does too, someone other than that libidinous wife. Mrs. Hudson would surely be with her sister. Perhaps even Molly has found someone to spend the day with. 

I no longer want to be cooped up in my small room. I go to the dining room, the smiling woman is there, she points at a bag of yak dung and then at the stove and then at a big pot filled with snow. This is my permission to light the fire. She must need water for cooking or for one of the bathrooms. The child runs laps around the room on legs so short that I wonder how they convey him from one place to another. The layers of clothing he wears make him look even shorter and wider than he really is. I dig around in my pockets for one of the Norwegian chocolate bars that he likes so much. His chocolate coated grin is reward enough but as I kneel by the fire, coaxing it to life, his mother brings me a glass of rum made my favourite way. 

I use one of the only Nepalese words I know. “Dhanyabad.”

She nods to my thanks and takes the boy by the hand and leads him to the kitchen. I am left alone to spend Christmas afternoon with the tiny fire, a small glass of rum and the endless silent mountains. I sit in the bright winter sunlight that shines through the big windows and wish I were home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have set this story in the Khumbu region of Nepal. Specifically in a tiny village called Periche. Periche is a days walk from Everest Base Camp and is the most delightful stop on the trek. Unlike Sherlock I am sad that I am not stuck there. I am having major nostalgia for Nepal. 
> 
> Although Many Happy Returns indicates that Sherlock infiltrates a group of Tibetan monks, I strongly suspect that the image from the opening scene depicts Ama Dablam, a distinctive mountain from the Khumbu region. (And because it gave me an excuse to visit my memories of this area). Additionally, there are many Tibetan people living in Nepal, but perhaps most importantly the images of the monks from MHR does not fit with traditional dress, so perhaps Mycroft is right, they are just posing as monks.
> 
> Meretricious and a Happy New Year


End file.
